


Bedsharing with a Bursting Heart

by londie



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Anxiety, M/M, Pining Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-21
Updated: 2017-05-21
Packaged: 2018-11-03 05:55:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10961088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/londie/pseuds/londie
Summary: Heart bursting from anxiety, Sherlock can't sleep. How different would his health be if he'd confessed to John from the start?





	Bedsharing with a Bursting Heart

Sherlock opened his eyes.  
He was lying on his side, curled up like a dead spider. But he wasn’t cold. Rather, his heart was beating as fast and hard as a malfunctioning machine. (You machine.)  
Most people would cry at hoarding such pain and pressure in their chest. Truly, with his closed eyes and rigid body, his focus on the discomfort was only exacerbated. But it was difficult to cry at something so constant. He had gone to bed in pursuit of some sleep, but in the end, he had lain down just to suffer from the inside out. 

Soft and vulnerable, he was folded in on himself enough to cover the smallest part of his bed. Yet, silence and loneliness told him in no gentle terms that he was, as usual, very alone.  
More specifically, John was not there. Would Sherlock feel this way if he was?  
Sherlock’s heart began to constrict even harder. He let out a small whimper.  
What if he had kissed John, that first night?  
He closed his eyes against his tears.  
Would this all be different? 

 

“Do you have a boyfriend?”  
Sherlock’s eyes flew open.  
The first thing he observed was John’s soft face. But it was as open and unharmed as a flower in springtime. As lovely as the day he had met him.  
As his shock waned, muffled hubbub and clinks of cutlery filled his ears. A cab loudly trundled by the window next to him. There was a soft booth beneath him, and his coat by his side.  
With a jolt of shock, Sherlock recognised it as Angelo’s.  
More specifically - however unbelievable it seemed to him - it was his first night with John.  
There must have been something in Sherlock’s stunned expression, because John backtracked. “Which is fine, by the way.”  
“I know it’s fine.” The reply was automatic.  
Suddenly, Sherlock’s heart was so calm, and so gentle, and so warm. It was beating with such a normal softness, it didn’t feel like his own at all.  
John gave an awkward half-smile, passing him a few soft looks. Sherlock stared back.  
He couldn’t express any of his wonder on his face. It was all trapped in his throat, and he felt ready to cry. 

Then, slowly, something strange began to happen. With each soft and normal heartbeat, Angelo’s began to slow down and quieten. It was only moments later when everything around Sherlock had the appearance of moving through treacle. It was as if his heart’s health was a pulley attached to his surroundings, slowing it down with each strange and comforting beat. And yet, it felt so disconnected to him, so foreign, as if he had taken another’s perfect heart to replace his own ruined one.  
Sherlock blinked rapidly at the man across from him.  
A heart as perfect as John’s. 

It was a beautiful relief. Without the pressure, the pain, Sherlock actually felt that he wanted to live right now, in this moment. He wanted to talk with John and watch his lips move. He was ready to let time pass and watch starlight fight through the fog. He wanted to stay happy, rather than ache to go to bed and curl up in agony around his chest.  
With each second that Sherlock’s heart remained gentle, his surroundings slowed and muted ever further. At the next table, a dropped glass seemed almost frozen mid-air. A noiseless cab inched by outside at a snail’s pace. 

But Sherlock had eyes only for the lovely man sitting across from him. His lips were still slowly forming around those words: “It’s all fine.”  
For a long while, Sherlock let himself gaze at John. And in the silence, quiet things were loud: his shirt brushing against the table as he leaned across it; the soft sound of his hand against John’s cheek.  
Sherlock was so close now. He watched the slow, slow dilation of John’s eyes.  
Suddenly, his heart began to beat much faster. Like a machine, its pulley effect began to speed up his surroundings. When Sherlock finally touched his mouth to John’s, everything was at a normal pace once more. 

Noise and movement filled the restaurant. The next table fussed over the shattered glass. The cab was gone. And Sherlock held John’s face in his hands, kissing him as soundly as he could.  
As John reached up to touch his cheek, his heart thumped and burned like an overheated engine. But it did not hurt at all. It felt healthy and his own.  
He closed his eyes.

Sherlock had taken the leap. Seized the chance. Kissing John on that first night saved him bottomless anguish and heartbreak.  
Instead, he could look forward to a long time of love. Seven years on, his heart would be healthy - rather than the anxiety-ridden, excruciating mess it had become the first time round.  
Hot and relieved tears filled Sherlock’s eyes. Instantly, they became trapped behind his eyelids.  
He had to let them go. He was aching to let it all go - all that heartbreak, all that suffering, everything that ruined the only body he had. Everything that made even lying in bed a torment. He was ready to let them go.  
He opened his eyes.

 

Sunlight was pouring through his window. Floating dust was turned gold.  
Sherlock was in bed, but stretched-out and warm. His heart was beating so gently, kindly, inside his chest. He didn’t feel alone at all.  
Of course, John would be sharing his bed.  
His presence helped Sherlock’s heart stay so strangely serene and functional. Now that he had gone back and kissed John at the first opportunity, he felt the misery of the coming years disappear.  
Tears were slipping hot and fast onto his pillow.

Slowly, Sherlock reached out a hand, seeking John. His heart was so full, so tender.  
And reached.  
He had a new life. A better one.  
And reached.  
The bed was cold. As empty as the day he had really met John.  
His heart sank faster than his newfound happiness.  
It was all fake, as usual. All in his mind, as usual.  
Soft and vulnerable, Sherlock folded in on himself enough to cover the smallest part of his bed. Facing away from John’s side, curled up again like a dead spider.  
He was helpless as his heart picked up a painful and erratic rhythm. All its gentleness, all the kindness, had disappeared with John.  
Sherlock closed his eyes.

**Author's Note:**

> "bedsharing with a bursting heart" aka “londie tries to distract themselves from anxiety by writing about anxiety" lol. thanks sm for the prompt, tali and hollyberrypie! (otherwise i wouldnt be writing anything at all aslhlasfh)  
> i was so overwhelmed by the comments on my last story, tysm!!! ^.^ 
> 
> tumblr: londonlock


End file.
